


A Round Table

by 13letters



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jaime and Courtly Love, King Gendry Baratheon, Knights - Freeform, More tags to be added, Orphans, Pining, canon-divergent, in which Gendry was at the Crossroads all winter, this does not follow season eight at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 18:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18675184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13letters/pseuds/13letters
Summary: "I'll be King in name only," Gendry says, slow, stupid. He's thinking, but it isn't much good. It's desperate, and it's for the children, really, the boy he used to be, and her. Her.





	A Round Table

**Author's Note:**

> This has been in my notes for two years. It's time, loves. I know my updating is inconsistent and I have more in-progress works than I can count, but I enjoy the development of this one and really hope we won't quit writing our what-if possibilities now that we know the end. It isn't over yet. x

"Winter came, my Lord," apologizes Varys, bowing his head as if he's regretful, truly regretful, to bring this news to Gendry after everything -- the Targaryen reign, the Greyjoy rebellion, the Arryn revolution, the end. The sacrifices and the treaties and the oppression and the poverty and the death. "Winter came, and then it went. Westeros has need of a king."

"There's no hope for the Kingdom if it's come looking for me," says Gendry, feigning quiet. Vying for a level head, "No."

"Consider it, my Lord."

"I'm not a lord. I'm a smith," he protests, and as emphasis, as the painful reminder of who he is, his hand leaves smudges of soot on the goblet he sets onto the table. "I have to get back."

"I was very sorry to hear of your wife's passing," says the Kingslayer -- Queenslayer, too, Dragonslayer, widower. Shadow, shield, ghost, man, knight. One of the truest knights that Westeros claims, now, because when the night was dark and years long, one man made sure whole villages had the provisions and protection they needed. One man gave everything he owned to his rectitude and his wife's memory: _Stand tall,_ they say she told him, prior.

(This is the same story, but it's a different version. Life changes with each breath.)

"I was very sorry to hear of yours," Gendry returns. "I met the Lady Lannister once when she was the Lady Brienne of Tarth. She mistook me for my uncle."

"An easy comparison."

"She searched for you," Gendry finds himself saying, so, so quietly in these woods, these ruins. It's what he would want to hear. "If it's any consolation, she searched for you and the -- the traitor. Sansa Arryn."

"You don't believe that?" asks Varys calmly, like it isn't a question he wants answered: the validity of her marriage since she's been widowed thrice. Four times, if the rumors are true.

"I've quit questioning what Kings and Queens tell me to think."

"You're wise, then," Jaime appraises, grinning so devil-may-care.

"Only a fool refuses to question authority," tuts Varys.

"I don't begrudge women the choices that are made for them," decides Gendry after a short, contrite moment. Really, the subtext stops his heart, and the blood stains his hands red. "She was no more a traitor than Ser Jaime."

"Ser Jaime didn't kill his wife. Ser Jaime will, though, back you if you declare yourself King."

"Ser Jaime told me four years earlier that I do not have to accept the position," Gendry denies.

"Ser Jaime wasn't at liberty to offer you counsel," Varys counters.

"Still, I do not wish it."

"That's why you're suitable."

"I don't want it."

"I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice."

"Let him call himself King," says Gendry. Then to Jaime: "The people wouldn't complain. They love their Barefoot Knight."

"I didn't give my boots away," Jaime persists, but that is what he told the bard who carried his songs of triumph and good deeds across the world. The bard who told the story of the lion and his lady, the knight and his maid, the beauty and the beast. Jaime once rode two days through the night just to watch Harrenhal burn, and then he cried amidst the ashes, for his phantom pains conjured his aching heart the feeling of her hand through his. "Gendry," he asks him, "did your wife give you any children?"

"No," he answers, stoic, defensive.

"Did any other woman?"

"No."

"Not --"

"No," he tenses, knuckles gone white.

"You're certain? Robert confessed to no bastards, but here you stand."

"And I'll stay. Now that the trees have thawed, I can begin rebuilding the inn."

"Would you care for assistance?" gently wonders Jaime, genuinely meaning the offer, Gendry finds.

(They say the Lady Lannister was pregnant, too, but Jaime doesn't speak of it. Rarely, if ever, he mentions his wife.)

"Won't you find another ruler? Join their Guard?"

"The people miss Robert," Varys begins, another practiced pitch that both other men speak over.

"The rest of the decent men are dead. Besides, I always meant to live in the woods in a cottage, you know."

"Truly?"

"Yes," Jaime muses, and gods, he is still as beautiful as ever when he smiles.

When he smiles, he is still shining and sixteen and sweet, pure of heart and sacred in his intentions. He's the man he always aspired to be. He is the man Gendry always wanted to be, but his life, the orphans, the dilapidated inn, his wife.

"We were going to run away and live in the wood like Wildlings or prisoners. We were going to raise pigs and babies and hens," the Kingslayer says like he -- like he'd trade is soul for all of it. Like he's still broken by the wanton, desperate _what if_ he had been braver or more certain or willing? Gods, they wasted so much time.

"Every man's dream," agrees Gendry. And because he isn't really thinking in this instant, this second that promises to change his life, he finds himself living in the fantasy, and he says: "We were going to live in a castle, ourselves. I was to be her knight, and she my Lady, or we were going to live like outlaws and be poor and hopeful."

"Your wife," says Jaime, nodding. "That's a pleasant dream."

"Not Jeyne," Gendry sighs, suddenly anxious to stand, move, beat or be beaten. "We didn't dream in winter. We prayed until the fever took her life before hunger could."

"I'm sorry," Jaime apologizes, the perpetually saddened look on his face deepening.

Varys, though, bids him, "Which deity do you serve?"

"Please." Gendry's laugh isn't much of a laugh. "Which gods do you serve?"

"Whichever my king will implore."

"The fire."

"Not that," begs Varys, for the first time looking truly doubtful. "Wherefore?"

"Fire saved us this winter."

"Men saved us. Living, breathing men who believed in this country," Varys contradicts. "Are you one of those men?"

"Hardly."

"Do you wish to restore peace, at least?"

"Not very much. Have your peace, and know I'm wary. What will be the cost?"

"If it's gold that you want, know that --"

"I don't mean the iron price," says Gendry. "I've heard the whispers of rumors, but worse, I've heard the truths that have broken down this realm. Why, look no further than Ser Jaime for a reminder of the payment that war demands."

The sword or the noose, oh, to ignore the slight, to acknowledge it, Jaime waves his wooden right hand in dismissal. Dismay. "I deserved my sentence, Gendry."

"Lady Brienne did not. Is there no mercy for the good?"

"Mercy?" echoes Jaime, bitter, laughing. "Mercy is what she said. But mercy would have been my body pushed from a tower. Mercy would have been my legs crippled as penance. Imagine those songs, lad."

"I would memorize the words."

"Of course, as King," Varys delicately states, "it would be in your decision to pardon those who have infringed upon justice."

"Betrayal," corrects Gendry.

"Vengeance," volunteers Jaime.

"If we are to rebuild this Kingdom, we can not spurn each man and woman who have dared to previously choose their allegiances."

Gendry remains silent for a long moment. "Who would oppose me?"

"Who would dare? As Robert Baratheon's son, you are the rightful King. His line is true."

"Bastard," reminds Gendry. "I am his bastard, unrecognized son. I am a smith. I am a widower."

"You are legitimate, or so documentation will soon claim."

"Who would oppose me?" repeats Gendry, his voice hard. "Who would risk the safety of our world, just as I would, in the name of acting as a ruler?"

"Who is left, you mean?"

"Yes, Ser Jaime," answers Gendry. "Who remains?"

"Ser Brandon Stark," answers Varys.

"Bran?"

"Yes."

"No. _No_ ," he practically _rages_ in his quiet, pained way, for fourteen, for eighteen, for her, no, "I will not take up arms against him."

"He is Bran the Rebuilder now," Jaime tells him gently. "He doesn't wish to be King of all Seven Kingdoms."

"Just the North?"

"Unless he approves of the King, yes."

"Who else?"

"Jorah Mormont."

"Let him, then."

"Lyanna Mormont, though she is a child."

"There haven't been any children since summer ended. Who else is left?"

"Lady Sansa Arryn. High as honor, yes, widowhood becomes her. I would suggest you wed her if you became King."

"And become her fifth husband? She's been made a widow thrice, and they say she has willed it so."

"There's a Tyrell boy left. He fled for Dorne, you know."

"I didn't."

"Ser Edric Dayne remains, I'm sure you know," says Jaime.

"And his Lady?"

"Sandor Clegane still barks. Samwell Tarly still writes, and the next houses of great are still finding footfalls in cracking ice. However, there are rumors Stannis still lives."

"Stannis who?"

"Be sure to bring your sense of humor along," warns Jaime, a gentle goad. "You'll need it. Will you be ready to leave in the morning?"

"I haven't accepted," Gendry says, straightening up and dying, literally; he is being stabbed by a small knife, sharp between his ribs, and he is being sold for the fourth time into an existence he does not wish, "no, I must remain here."

"My Lord," says Varys. He's apologetic but isn't the least bit ashamed. "You don't have much choice. We will declare you as King tomorrow morning, and your coronation will follow at sunset. The process will be swift as to relieve the Kingdom, and routine will settle as history has so Westeros will not have to feel the pain of the years past."

"We must act quickly," Jaime agrees, a mere murmur. "There has been too much death. If the realm feels secure, peace will follow. Will you sacrifice your life, Gendry?"

"Gods," he swears. He puts both his hands on his face and only opens his eyes when there is the _clink_ of metal, the brush of a white cape against the dirty, earthen floor.

"I am prepared to sacrifice mine," Jaime tells him solemnly. "You have my sword. I will serve as guardian to my King and uphold your justice."

"Uphold your own. Half the Kingdom believes you are Queen Cersei's heir since you are her next of kin."

"She took the Throne by deceit. The Baratheon reign still lives in you."

"But the Targaryens --"

"Aegon the Frozen and the Unburnt has done what we've wanted to, lad. They say he's gone North."

"They say he's living in the crypts of what was Winterfell."

"They say he's taken a sister-wife," Varys contradicts, not to be outdone. When both men just stare at him, he shrugs, clasps his hands. "Of course, she would truly be a cousin-wife, you'll know."

"Lady Arryn? Sansa's left the Vale?" Jaime wonders, perking up. "Does that mean she's attending the tourney?"

"What tourney?"

"The King's tourney," Jaime quips. "Your tourney.

"Lady Arya has married her brother, Jon?"

"Lady Arya has likely married her cousin, Aegon the Dead and Undying, the Frozen and the Unburnt, the Sworn Protector of the North, yes."

"For strategy?" asks Gendry, untoward. "For political means? For the good of the realm?"

"Or for love," suggests Jaime, but none really pay him any mind.

"I'll be King in name only," Gendry says, slow, stupid. He's thinking, but it isn't much good. It's desperate, and it's for the children, really, the boy he used to be, and her. Her.


End file.
